Silence is a season,
one that's only heard and never felt.
I hear it and make it real.

No animals in the forest,
The winds stopped whistling through.
No lightness in my lungs.
And the stars have all left too.

Blackness in the backyards,
Covering up tireswings.
Spilling into the bedrooms
and sliding across floors.
It moves swiftly without wings.

I run my fingers through it, to search vainly for rigid peaks,
meant to mark limits,
to give structure and give form.
But silence goes clear on forever,
to where it came from or what it turns.
how it feels just like a friend.

and the TV set is glowing
with the silence button on.
but I hear just what is said,
a few more good people are dead

Dreams of people talking,
but in a quiet sort of way.
And a mute crow on a gravestone,
and below the grass is still growing.
silence swallows me